the descent of the lotus eaters
by crimson and bare
Summary: She lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. The lotusland was falling apart at the seams, the nectar run dry and the flowers tasteless and ashy. But she didn't care. She couldn't care. Her bones hurt, her head hurt, her body hurt, that cold storage shed she had in place of a heart ached. People tried to talk sense into her. But she refused to believe he was gone. Oneshot.


**The Descent of the Lotus Eaters**

_Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,_

_In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined_

_On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind._

_For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd_

_Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd_

_Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world;_

_Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands_

_The Lotus Eaters, Lord Alfred _

The descent of the Death Eaters came in different forms, but all the same sensation. It felt as if a junkie, who lived only for the next hit, had suddenly found their supply run dry, and every opiate wiped off of the face of the Earth. Something that seemed definite, there, concrete, endless, had suddenly disappeared, and took everything with it. No one could find it easy. A life of luxury is one thing, every pureblood experiences it. A life of pure indulgence and vice is something else entirely, and tears a hole in the soul that nothing can fill.

Some were more invested than others. He was an idol, a God, and to be missed sorely by those who needed his cause. But only one person, only one in the entire world, _loved _him. She knew loss. But never anything like this. She had sacrificed everything and everyone she loved for him, burned every bridge, so she could lie in his arms in the moonlit night. And he left her. Abandoned her, cold and destitute. She could not blame him. It was impossible to blame him.

She lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. The lotusland was falling apart at the seams, the nectar run dry and the flowers tasteless and ashy. But she didn't care. She couldn't care. Her bones hurt, her head hurt, her body hurt, that cold storage shed she had in place of a heart _ached_. People tried to talk sense into her. It was futile.

One night, she slipped out and wallowed in a bar in Knockturne Alley, the burn of hard liquor void of sensation. The only burn she could ever feel would sear no more. Someone came to her, sitting across from her. She didn't bother talking, though he looked incredibly familiar. Probably another servant of her master about to claim innocence to keep his fortune.

"You two were close."

Silence.

"He liked you very much."

Her lips parted slightly, but she had no words.

"I bet he misses you."

Eyes flickered. She looked up at him, setting down her shot glass a little too loudly. The sandy haired boy only stared at her with such genuine eyes. He looked young and stupid, but she didn't care. He believed it too. This insignificant kid believed that the Dark Lord was _alive_, which Bellatrix knew to be true. He was immortal. He had conquered death.

_"Will you miss me when I die?" she whispers, running her bloody finger along his clavicle. It leaves a streak of her insides on his skin. _

"You...?" she breathed, her voice odd and unused. She hadn't spoken to anyone in weeks, save for shouting at her devoted husband whom tried desperately to get her out of bed.

He reached forward and touched her hand, something that would usually get you backhanded in the face, but she accepted. She didn't ever like sympathy, nor did she harbor any, but misery enjoys company. His fingers were warm, gentle. She didn't like the sensation of it, but the sentiment gave her an odd sort of hope. Someone finally agreed with her, instead of screamed at her to move on. She could never. How could she ever?

They talked for a long while, too long maybe. He understood her, though she didn't bother to even listen to him. But they grew closer, and she, dazed by liquor and grief, pressed her lips against his. He accepted it eagerly, as anyone would. She was notoriously beautiful, and a fantasy of the bedroom to countless people. But they would never have her. No one would but the only person she dared care for.

The two of them stumbled onto the bed, fumbling with each other. She didn't make eye contact, though her lips barely left his skin. He was cautious and she hated it. She tore at him and he was probably frightened, but her eyes were shut and sealed their by undesired tears as she pretended, perhaps against her will.

_He tosses her down easily, carelessly. Her heart is palpitating, horrified. She has only ever kissed before, but she has never desired sex more than when she is near her master. He is brutal and she loves it, moaning, clawing, clinging. It hurts worse than anything she has ever felt, but she is finally alive in this moment. More so than with torture and more so than with love. In this passion she feels complete, instead of hollow like every day of her existence._

_The blood stains the sheets and he is angry at first, slapping her into the headboard for not telling him. But they both love it too much. There is something between them that two strong and loveless people will both admit fills them with lust._

_The years of absolute pleasure are the only humanity in master and disciple._

"Oh, my lord," she gasped and suddenly everything stopped. He dropped her, slipping back slightly. She found herself looking at that stupid boy who made her feel content for a little while, and not the man who was in her head. "I'm sorry." She didn't mean it.

"I shouldn't have... You're... You're not... available," the boy stammered, humbled despite his near victory.

"I kissed you first." She got out of the bed and pulled on her clothes, biting her lip until it bled to keep from showing him emotion.

"If you want to do something about the Dark Lord, I'd help you," the boy said, still looking beyond flustered.

"I'll remember that."

She went home and lay in bed more, and stared at the ceiling more, and accumulated a pile of liquor bottles and cigarette butts. Finally, she was seized by the arm and spun around to face her husband. He looked her in the eyes and said, "I will do anything on this Earth to make you smile again."

And so he did. A week later, she leaned against the wall in a holding cell, staring at the ceiling quite blithely.

"Can I ask you something?" The sandy haired boy is the first to speak in an hour of waiting for the trial.

"Mhm," she replied, though her head was far away.

"Why are you smiling?" he inquired, someone who looked brave and noble a few days ago now frightened and small.

Her lips parted slightly, but she couldn't think of any words. Perhaps she really had gone mad, as Narcissa insisted after offering help. And so she shrugged, and she never heard from him again.

_She's grinning, lifting her wand from the mutilated young man. The sweet smell of ash is in her nostrils. Someone grabs her arms, pulling her around to face him. Dark eyes meet._

_"A nice figure, a mad smile and a boy's corpse; you_ are _very pretty," the Dark Lord breathes in her ear, twisting his fingers in her sleek, shiny black hair. They fall back, his smooth hands sliding her skirt up._

Perhaps the sweet narcotics the lotus eaters fed on were once forbidden. But someone, someone told them that it was noble, good and delicious. And so they seized their chance and their lives and sanity slipped away. But, honestly, in the end, it didn't matter, really. The world could collapse around the lotus eaters, but they would be happy. And on the day that their island ceased to provide the nectar, they would panic for a while, maybe war with each other and die for their loss. But, in the end, all that would matter would be that they were very happy. Maybe in their walking sleep, they were more alive than every person in Greece.

Suddenly, the dementors grabbed her and dragged her into the hallway. She allowed it, but then suddenly they stopped. She looked straight at her little sister, whose eyes were blazing and make-up was a wreck. Bellatrix's self satisifed smile faded.

"Don't do it, Bella. Don't throw your life away for a dead man," Narcissa said frantically.

Bellatrix spat in her face as the dementors dragged her away.

He wasn't dead. At least not in her waking dreams.


End file.
